Wednesday, April 25, 2018

We, the pompous, the curious, the contracted, or honour bound, gather like cows in the pre-dawn dark, to remember things we have never known.Uncertain, and unsure of procedureLike those being slaughtered on beaches long agoWe watch ourselves awkwardly on TVsMumbling the catechism, singing hymnsFollowing the prescribed ritualsOf the shiny funeral directors in uniform.They speak of courage, of service and dutyOf those blind, led by the blind, into theImpossible meat grinder of pain and screaming.They speak of peace, and loss, and sons,they who would repeat it all tomorrowIf only civilisation would lose its griplet them slip, joyful, into darkness.Beneath this phallic monument pink in the morning light.We gather, uncertain about one thing:The measure of a generation's manhood.And I wonder why we menhaven’t grown up yet.